There was a young lady called Gale
Who stole from the Royal Mail.
The judge did frown
As he sent her down
And she quaked at the thought of jail.
There Was A Young Lady Called Gale
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Tag Archives: poetry
There Was A Young Man Called Ray
There was a young man called Ray
Who could not his bills pay.
When the bailiffs came to his house
They found nought but a mouse
So in sorrow went away.
This Wet Tree
This wet tree.
These birds,
This rain
And me.
I am, For a moment, free.
There Was An Elderly Cricketer Called Jay
There was an elderly cricketer called Jay
Who having reached close of play,
Remarked “I am all bowled out.
There is no need to shout,
Indeed I have nothing left to say”.
There Was A Young Lady Called Lorraine
There was a young lady called Lorraine
Who boarded a London bound train.
When informed “this is an Express”,
She said “I must confess
That I meant to board a plane …!”
A few limericks
There was a young man called Adolf
Who was very fond of his golf.
When it came to their wedding day
His girlfriend did say,
“He is with his golfing partner Rolfe!”
—
There was a young lady called Louise
Who kept a hive of bees.
When people asked, “Do they sting?”,
She said, “That’s the thing,
And they are very fond of cheese …!”
Birthday
My hair is silver-grey
And it is my birthday tomorrow.
We all borrow time
But, when young tend not to think
On such things as we drink
The wine.
I will be forty-eight.
Sometimes I glimpse a gate
That opens into a peaceful wood,
Where the blood
Ceases to run
And the sun
Is as one with the dark.
My heart
Beats strong
And I will lose myself in friends, wine and song,
So smile enigmatically and say
“tomorrow is my birthday”.
Death and Rebirth.3.
These dry
Leaves do not die.
They become one with the earth.
A derth
Of green
Is seen,
Then a rebirth,
The old, in the new
Takes root
And does heavenwards shute.
The past, present and future one may see
In the mighty tree,
While you and me
Pass by
With a sigh
As we ponder on our mortality.
There Was A Young Lady Called Jane
There was a young lady called Jane
Who always did maintain
That she could eat a horse
But, of course
The saddle she would retain …!
January
The bedclothes
Are neatly made
And the lone head laid
On pillows replete
With the scent of soap powder.
The portrait is complete
For nothing in January grows.
K Morris - Poet 